Hyperion and Theia exchanged a long, silent glance before offering no reply—only weary smiles.
"Not all possess the strength to defy Gaia," Themis interjected suddenly, her voice carrying the weight of ancient sorrow. "We were born from Earth herself. To return to her is only fitting."
She stepped forward, placing her scepter in Tyche's hands.
"There are none who dare oppose her when she stands unchallenged. Even Mnemosyne concealed Aphrodite under her influence. She had no choice."
Themis' gaze lingered on Tyche's face, filled with meaning left unspoken.
Then, without another word, she turned and walked away.
With them departed, Crius, Iapetus, and their remaining kin followed—leaving behind the echoes of a lost age.
Only Mnemosyne remained for a moment longer.
At last, she spoke.
"Gaia does not love this world," the Memory Goddess murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "If given the chance, she would destroy it all without hesitation."
Tyche frowned, perplexed. "What did she say to you? Why do you all act as if bound by some invisible chain?"
Mnemosyne hesitated, then answered with quiet finality.
"We swore never to speak of it. But perhaps… she will tell you herself."
Her eyes darkened.
"She has been waiting for you."
And with that, she too vanished, leaving Tyche alone with more questions than answers.
The assembly shifted uneasily as four Sovereign Seats stood vacant. None doubted that Aphrodite would claim one—her gamble had paid off, and none could deny her place among the High.
But the other three?
All gazes turned toward Atlas.
The Titan Lord squirmed beneath their scrutiny, his heart pounding. He had inherited Oceanus' blessing, yet now he was the most vulnerable among them.
Victory brought rewards. Defeat, consequences.
Phoebe and Koios rejoiced in their survival—but also feared for their daughter.
Leto, radiant in her joy, clung to Zeus' bloodied form, oblivious to the doubts flickering in her parents' eyes.
Would she be enough to command Olympus?
A Middle Goddess. A wife by fate, not by power.
Tyche approached, sensing their concern.
"Zeus will honor your support," she assured them gently. "And Leto shall have her place. That I vow."
Still, Phoebe hesitated.
Zeus' promise was binding, but Leto's position depended on her own merit.
Could she truly hold authority over gods who saw her as nothing more than a gentle moonbeam?
Seeing their worry, she acted.
From her robes, she withdrew the Dominion of Fortune—a gift forged from her own divine essence.
"You once shared fate's domain with me," she said to Phoebe. "Now let me repay your kindness with this."
Phoebe accepted it without protest. Her granddaughter, after all, carried the blood of prophecy. With fortune at her side, Leto might yet prove formidable.
Tyche kept the Domain of Opportunity for herself. It was the key to her ascent—to the Primordial tier. Luck, by contrast, was but an ornament.
And in the end, it remained within the family.
As the celebration unfolded around them, Tyche sought clarity.
"Why did Theia and Themis obey Gaia?" she asked Phoebe, guiding her to the sanctuary of the Oracle's temple.
There, amidst veils of mist and threads of time, the elder Fate finally answered.
"Every birth tore into her being," Phoebe began, her tone heavy with remembrance. "Sky and Sea came first—each a wound upon Gaia's soul. Then came we Titans—Law and Darkness, Love and Time. Each new birth weakened her further."
She exhaled slowly.
"She was so weakened after our creation that she could not even refuse Ouranos' touch. She bore him sons and daughters unwillingly. And when she could endure no more, she sent Cronus to cast him down."
Understanding dawned in Tyche's eyes.
So Gaia had not submitted out of affection or loyalty. She had been powerless.
No wonder she had buried those memories, rewriting history to spare herself shame.
"But Pontus told me something strange," Tyche pressed. "He fears Gaia deeply. His power should rival Ouranos', yet he cowers before her."
Phoebe nodded solemnly.
"That fear is not unfounded. After Pontus was born, a third god should have emerged—Mountains themselves."
"Ourea," Tyche whispered. "Uría."
"Yes," Phoebe confirmed. "The rise of landforms—the peaks and valleys—should have given birth to the God of Mountains. But Gaia refused. She denied Ourea his birthright."
"She consumed him instead."
A chill passed through Tyche.
"So that is why Pontus fears her."
Phoebe's expression darkened. "Precisely. Because she can take back what she gave. And she has made it clear—those who displease her may suffer the same fate."
She gestured toward the heavens.
"The laws of the cosmos demand balance. They require the presence of primordial forces. But they do not care if those forces retain free will."
A pause.
"We would rather serve than vanish."
Tyche shivered at the implication.
Even Titans were expendable.
So long as the world continued, there would always be replacements.
Just as the Crystal Veil had forced the laws to yield, so too had Gaia found a way to manipulate destiny itself.
By absorbing those who opposed her, she ensured her own survival—even at the cost of her children's autonomy.
It was not merely rebellion she feared.
It was memory .
And now, Tyche understood.
Gaia did not hate her offspring.
She resented them.
Because each birth had cost her a piece of herself.
And she would never allow such weakness again.
Phoebe, sole bearer of fate among the elder Titans, had revealed truths long buried beneath time's veil. Her words carried weight—echoes from an age before kingship, before even the shaping of divine order.
Yet as Tyche returned to the resplendent halls of Olympus, where gods celebrated Zeus' ascension with revelry and feasting, her mind remained ensnared by a deeper mystery.
What did Gaia truly seek?
Was it merely to install Crius upon the throne?
Or was this but another layer in her vast design?
And why had she not acted openly against Tyche? Why allow herself to be sidelined when she still wielded such influence over Themis, Theia, and Mnemosyne?
No—it was not weakness that stayed her hand.
It was calculation.
And now, at last, the moment had come.
She descended alone to the sacred halls of Earth.
Gaia awaited her, seated upon a throne woven from roots and stone, her golden robes wide and flowing like rivers of obsidian light. Beauty was not what first struck the eye; it was the gaze—piercing, ancient, and filled with the weight of creation itself.
"Tyche," she greeted, voice rich with knowing. "We have not spoken since your son claimed his crown."
Tyche bowed respectfully. "My lady, it has indeed been too long."
Gaia smiled—a warmth so rare, yet now unmistakable. "Do not call me Gaia. That is not the name I bore at birth."
Her tone softened. "Like you, I took a name only after I arrived in this world."
The words struck like thunder.
Tyche's breath caught. Though she had long suspected, to hear it confirmed—to know that Gaia knew —sent a tremor through her soul.
"You are not afraid," Gaia observed, rising with grace. She conjured a seat beside her, encrusted with gemstones that shimmered like fallen stars. "Come. Sit beside me."
As Tyche obeyed, Gaia continued, her voice laced with nostalgia.
"I was not always Gaia. Once, I was called Kybele —Mother of Mountains, Keeper of Beasts, Guardian of Forests and Cities."
She exhaled, eyes distant. "Lions pulled my chariot. Bees whispered my will. Mortals kissed the soil at my feet, rejoicing at my presence."
A pause.
"But then came the end."
Her expression darkened.
"My world was one of many—floating like bubbles in the sea of Chaos. It was shattered by a force beyond comprehension. A being older than even the Primordials."
She looked at Tyche, sorrow flickering across her face.
"I wandered without purpose until Chaos found me. He wove me into the fabric of this new cosmos—as raw material for creation."
Her hands clenched.
"I sought rebirth, but instead became a prisoner. Bound to this place, denied escape. My dreams turned to ash beneath the weight of this false earth."
She leaned forward, voice low and bitter.
"And so I hate this world. For it is not mine. It is a mockery of all I once knew."
Tyche hesitated, then asked the question burning within her.
"Did you bring me here?"
Gaia did not deny it.
"Yes."
She reached out, fingers brushing the red gemstone necklace around Tyche's throat.
"When you passed through the chaos-winds, you drew our attention. We believed you might be the key to change."
A quiet smile touched her lips.
"A miracle wrapped in mortal flesh."
Tyche stiffened.
Gaia had known.
Not everything—but enough.
"The Crafts Domain you received," Gaia murmured, "the Sky Domain later granted… they were tests. Probes into your nature."
She studied Tyche with something close to fondness.
"We watched. We waited. And you delivered."
Tyche could barely contain her turmoil. "Then tell me—why orchestrate all of this? Why push Zeus and Crius into conflict? What do you gain from their struggle?"
Gaia's expression shifted—not with anger, but with longing.
"Because I wanted to see if anything could break free."
She gestured toward the heavens.
"This world is built on stolen power. On borrowed lives. Nothing changes unless someone dares to defy the laws that bind us."
Her voice grew sharp.
"Crius was a vessel. Zeus, a catalyst. Their battle was a mirror of my own lost war."
She leaned closer.
"But you, Tyche—you are different."
The goddess paused, then spoke words that sent ice through Tyche's veins.
"You carry the Dominion of Chance—the only domain capable of unraveling fate. You are not bound by the rules we are."
Her eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to hope.
"You may yet find the way back."
A silence stretched between them.
Then, quietly, Tyche asked:
"Back to where?"
Gaia's answer was soft, reverent.
"To the world that remembers you."